


By Proxy

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Spoilers for Episode: s03e06 Motel California, The Mature rating is not for sexy times, Torture, Violence, in other words no penises are touching in this fic, unless you consider graphic violence sexy times, which I sort of do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Chris cannot do, Peter can.  And Chris knows someone has to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Proxy

 

“This really needs to end.”

Chris stops watching the numbers flick by on the gas pump just long enough to pinpoint Peter Hale, standing at the pump across and diagonal from him. It's night, and late, and they're the only two people here.

“The Hale/Argent gas station meetings? You're right, I agree. It's getting a little tacky at this point.” The pump clicks off and he returns the spigot to its cradle.

“That _is_ true, although I'd point out you're the one who started those. I admit I'm a little curious about your technique. Window washing a man's car to threaten him?”

“Says the wolf who helped my daughter pick out a winter formal dress.”

Peter moues, then shrugs. “Point.”

Chris is opening his car door, careful to maintain nonchalance while loosening the knife sheathed to his forearm, when Peter speaks again, suddenly much closer to Chris' ear. “But no. I mean you letting your father still breath.”

Chris' motion stutters, then he slowly turns around, leans against the car and crosses his ankles. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

The street light filters down, illuminating the dust motes swirling around Peter. He smiles and braces a hand on the side of Chris' SUV; it's a struggle not to react with either a flinch or a knife in Peter's belly as he leans in close to Chris' neck and inhales deep.

“Don't play coy, Christopher. I can smell his putrid stench all over you.” He straightens back up but keeps his hand where it is. The blade in Chris' hand doesn't go unnoticed, but Peter doesn't bother with it, either. “Just like I can smell the absolute _hatred_ that rolls off you whenever you even _think_ about him. The man broke you. Made you his shiny sword. Encouraged your wife to die so she wouldn't threaten his power. Turned your daughter into his little tool, too. And yet, here you sit. Hiding him. _Protecting_ him. All while your deepest desire is to tear his intestines out and feed them to the dogs.

I admit I'm curious at your restraint. Are you really that owned?”

“Maybe you're comfortable with parricide,” Chris' words grit out through clenched teeth, “But I won't murder my family in cold blood.” And there's no court system in the world that can try the kind of creature his father has become.

“Hmm. Principle then? I'm not sure I _quite_ believe that. I've watched your little balancing act, you know. Not _nearly_ as white hat as everyone wants to believe.”

Headlights pan across them as another car pulls into the gas station. Peter drops his arm and nods. “But you're right. I _can_ murder my relatives if the situation requires. But lucky for you -” He presses a forefinger against Chris' bottom lip, his nail sharp and long and forcing the flesh to give. Chris tries to jerk away, but Peter's other hand is suddenly at his neck, holding him fast. He shivers, and Peter grins and licks his teeth.

“Lucky for you,” he repeats, “I also have no problem with killing yours, either.”

Then he's gone, and Chris is left staring into the night.

* * * * * * *

 

Chris sits in the shadows of his father's bedroom, in a corner from which he can see both window and door, and with a gun resting on his thigh. His father is tucked in bed, mocking sleep as they wait for the coming storm. It's been two nights now, and Chris predicts they won't make it through one more.

It's two...maybe three in the morning when a dull orange light blinks on Chris' phone, signaling something...less than human...has breached the perimeter of the complex. He turns the phone off and lets it slip to the floor; he won't need it again.

Five minutes....ten...and the window slides seamlessly open. No sound, no change in lighting. He wonders how many times Peter has done this, then lets the thought float away in lieu of concentrating on the shifting shadows that signal Peter's progress. He waits until Peter reaches the bed, until the sudden intake of breath indicates he's got his hands on Gerard, before he reaches to the side and flicks on the floor lamp.

Light floods the room as Chris stands, his motions measured and unhurried. Peter has his arm around Gerard's neck, and Gerard grins triumphantly, even as Peter narrows his eyes and tightens his hold. Peter clucks his tongue and his eyes follow Chris as he makes his way to the bedroom door.

“I'm disappointed in you, Christopher. Only one gun, and my claws already at your father's throat. Do you _really_ think you can stop me?”

Chris makes a small humming noise as he tucks the gun into the small of his back and pulls a pouch from his pocket. He crouches and trails a thick line of mountain ash across the doorway, then locks the door as he stands back up. No human or creature can enter or exit the room now, save through the window that Peter is currently blocking.

He smiles, small and tight, and leans back against the door frame, arms crossed at his chest. “I'm not here to stop you. I'm just making sure you're not interrupted.”

Peter's eyes widen infinitesimally, but it's Gerard that hisses angrily. “ _What are you doing?_ This is not the -” Peter's arm squeezes and Gerard's words are choked off.

Chris' fingers tap an absent beat against his upper arms as he answers Gerard's accusation. “I am your son. And as such I can't bring myself to give you the justice you deserve. You should congratulate yourself on that. But like all dutiful sons, I have also learned every lesson you taught. So tell me, _father_ , what's the best way to get rid of an enemy?” Chris' smile turns cold as he continues without pause, answers his own question. “Get someone else to do it for you.”

Whatever Gerard might have said in response is cut off when Peter clamps a hand over his mouth so that _he_ can talk. “Christopher,” he breathes, “Now this _is_ surprising.” Peter's tone is frankly admiring, and his eyes rake up Chris' body in a way that makes an uncomfortable heat unfurl in his belly. “When this is done, I think you and I are going to have to have a long, long talk.”

“Perhaps.” He nods toward the bedside table. “There's duct tape in the drawer.”

Peter holds his gaze for another second before adjusting his grip on Gerard so that he can get to the drawer without releasing either his neck or his mouth. His hand reappears with the tape, and faster than Chris had expected, he hauls Gerard from the bed to his wheelchair. He strips his shirt and pants away, wraps a long strip around his head to gag his mouth, and binds his arms and legs to the chair itself. Bound, and clad only in boxers, black oozes unchecked from Gerard's nose, and Chris wonders if it might suffocate him before Peter can actually begin.

Peter sits on the end of the bed, facing Gerard. Both men are in profile to Chris; Peter holds up one finger and the nail lengthens and sharpens to a claw. Slowly, with extreme precision, Peter slides it down Gerard's cheek, creating a deep gash that causes Gerard to grunt and struggle fruitlessly, while blood streams free. Peter sits back and watches as, over the space of a few seconds, the wound re-closes and heals.

“Oh,” he says happily, “I had so hoped that might be the case.” His eyes flash to Chris – to see his reaction, Chris thinks – and he keeps his expression dispassionate, other than the slight lift of one eyebrow.

Peter breathes out an _ah_ before turning his attention back to Gerard. “You see, Gerard, I know a thing or two about monsters. _I_ , perhaps it can be argued, am a monster. Your daughter was definitely a monster. Monsters, in the end, have to be put down. But quickly, you see. Humanely.” He drags his claw along the side of Gerard's throat, barely pricking the surface enough for blood to bead behind him.

“Are you a literary man, Gerard? I'll bet you are. The thing a man learns, when he studies the classics, is that monsters are, curiously enough, mostly innocent in their brutality. Their deaths, though necessary, are nothing to be joyed in. Because monsters, you see, are _made_. The suffering, and the guilt, well, they belong to men like you. Their creators. Men like you should feel their deaths for...a very long time. And since we have now been gifted with time,” he nods in Chris' direction, “it would be a shame not to use it.”

He straightens and turns back to Chris. “This will be messy. Perhaps you would prefer -” He looks pointedly at the door beside Chris. Chris just settles more comfortably against the door frame and says nothing.

“Well then.” Peter shrugs. “Let's begin.”

What follows is a lot of blood and a lot of the wet sounds of flesh tearing, punctuated by the occasional crack of bone. In the beginning, Peter glances his way every few minutes, possibly waiting for his protest – Chris doesn't know and he doesn't really care – but as time passes, it happens less and less. Peter gets absorbed in the work, in figuring out exactly how long it takes this bone to heal, or that wound to close, or how far he can push before Gerard passes out.

Gerard passes out a lot.

Each time, Peter sits back. Waits. Adjusts a pant leg or a sleeve or wipes a spatter of blood from his face. Eventually Gerard groans back to consciousness and Peter begins again.

Towards the end Peter gets more meticulous. More artistic. More...showy. His eyes meet Chris' more and more often over the top of Gerard's head, and it takes him longer each time to look away.

“Talia.” Peter uses a claw to scrawl her name deep into Gerard's left shoulder.

“Melly.” This name runs down his upper arm.

“Jonathan.” A crimson signature across his chest.

One by one Peter scrawls the name of every dead Hale into Gerard's body, not letting the constant twitch and struggle of muscles slow him in any significant way. When he's listed his dead, he grabs Gerard by the hair and forces his head back. For the first time in the entire night, Peter looks something other than detached or amused - his teeth bared and fanged and his face twisted into a rictus of fury and pain. And despite the agony Gerard must be in, and the sweat and snot and black blood smeared over his face, the hatred in his eyes is still burning bright. Chris doesn't expect that to change.

Peter features smooth out and he begins carving along one cheek.

“Laura.”

His forehead.

“Cora.”

The other cheek.

“Derek.”

He pauses, then spins the wheelchair around and pushes Gerard forward, baring his back.

“Peter,” he hisses, cutting his own name into the nape of Gerard's neck. He drags his nail down Gerard's spin, to his shoulder blades, then in a quick flash of movement begins scrawling again.

“Kate.”

Chris jerks but Peter doesn't look up at the sound.

Another few inches down.

“Victoria.”

Then across the small of Gerard's back.

“Christopher.”

Gerard's entire body is running red and Peter bends over him, puts his mouth next to his ear. His voice is soft, but Chris can still hear him over the gurgling sound of Gerard's breaths. “There should be more, but unfortunately I don't have all their names.”

The first weak light of dawn is filtering through the blinds, and Peter straightens. Somehow his maneuvering has put both he and Gerard facing Chris, so when Peter fists Gerard's hair and pulls him upright again, all of that hatred in Gerard's eyes falls on him. Peter lightly places a hand across Gerard's throat, then raises his eyes to meet Chris' as well. It's him Chris focuses on, and the unspoken question implicit in the tilt of his head.

Chris nods once, sharp and final.

Peter smiles, wide and beatific, and, never taking his eyes from Chris' face, rakes his claws across Gerard's neck. Spinal column neatly severed, Gerard's body collapses the second Peter lets go of his head. He steps around the wheelchair, kicking it back as he passes. It spins in a wild circle and crashes into the wall, the spatter of blood it leaves behind almost an afterthought to the entire event.

Peter moves directly into Chris' space and trails red crusted, flat nails down his cheek. Chris' hand has already gone to the butt of his gun, so he stays silently ready and waits for Peter's next move. Peter's fingers dig into his jaw as he scans repeatedly over his face, curiosity clear, but warring with something Chris isn't sure he wants to identify. He refuses to look away, though, or to stop breathing the cloying smell of blood and death that swirls around Peter; by the time Peter speaks, the air has gone heavy enough that Chris isn't sure it's not just the wall behind him that is supporting them both.

“First Kate and now Gerard. This is getting to be a nasty little habit for you. I'm surprised I didn't have to take care of that wife of yours.”

The muzzle of Chris' gun is pressed against the underside of Peter's jaw between one breath and the next. “Let's leave her out of this, shall we?” When Peter doesn't immediately respond, Chris pushes the gun harder into his skin, forcing Peter's head to tilt back. After a minute the corners of Peter's lips turn up, and although the fingers on his face dig deeper, Peter gives a small nod.

“Fair enough.”

Chris flicks the safety back on and lets the gun drop. “Don't pretend Kate's death had anything to do with me. And I _never_ asked you for this.”

“Someone had to do it. And again, Christopher, coyness does not suit you. There is a fine, fine line between killing someone and letting them be killed. Semantics, really. I don't particularly like the fact you used me as your knife.”

Chris scuffs the line of ash with his heel, breaking the barrier to the room. “ _You_ came to _me,_ Peter. Because you wanted me to know. So, tell me, what bothers you more? That I wanted to watch? Or that you liked me watching?”

The fingers on his jaw slide to his bottom lip and rest lightly, barely pressing in at all. If Chris opens his mouth the slightest bit, he'll taste blood.

“You think, because I did you a favor, that you somehow have a pet killer now?”

Somewhere outside, the lid of a trash bin slams shut. Copper and skin crash across his tongue. “I have no interest in things on leashes.”

Peter's smile is a slow, sinuous curl. “Neither do I. And if I am not mistaken-” his fingers tap against the inside of Chris' lip with every word - “I have just...cut...your...leash.”

“Maybe,” Chris says, and Peter's fingers slip just a little further inside his mouth.

He finds the doorknob by touch, and turns it, opening the door and turning his head so that Peter's hand falls away. He breathes in a lungful of relatively clean, fresh air and tilts his head toward the bathroom.

“You can't walk out of here looking like that. Shower. I'll clean this up. There's fresh clothes on the back of the toilet.”

“You planned this out very carefully, didn't you?”

Chris smiles faintly. “Didn't you?”

Peter slides past him, far closer than necessary for a doorway open wide. He's almost to the bathroom when he pauses and turns back around, right as Chris is dragging a roll of plastic tarp sheeting across the small living room. “Christopher, don't fool yourself. I may have liked you watching, but you enjoyed the performance.”

He doesn't wait for Chris to respond before walking into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. A second later Chris hears the hiss of the pipes as the shower turns on and knows that, behind that door, Peter is naked and vulnerable. When he swallows, the tang of blood still lingers on his tongue. He hefts the sheeting into his arms, walks back into the bedroom, and begins the process of burying his father.

 


End file.
